


call it an exercise

by faaulkner



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Morning Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Bottom Will Graham, Sensory Deprivation, Top Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faaulkner/pseuds/faaulkner
Summary: It’s hardly the cruelest of punishments, and heaven only knows he and Will have doled out worse to each other in the bedroom alone. But that isn’tthe point,now is it?-Will wants Hannibal to fuck him. He doesn't want him to touch him, though.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 291
Collections: smut i definitely approve of





	call it an exercise

**Author's Note:**

> I am that unsure about my own ability to capture actual plot and dialogue that would coincide with these two pretentious asses that my first time publishing something with them has become. Whatever this filth is. Enjoy my Not Cop-Out that's also sort of a Cop-Out.

The light, teasing touches all over his front aren’t what wake Hannibal, but they certainly aid in bringing him back to the world of the living.

He cracks his eyes open, blinking at the window that sits on his side of the their spacious bedroom. It isn't that light out, yet, the sky still clinging to the hushed darkness of early morning. It’s the in between period, when the creatures of the night have begun to wind down from their trysts but the creatures who thrive in the day have yet to rise. Hannibal has long figured that he is somewhere in the middle on that scale. He allows that wandering hand to explore his flesh as he awakes, not bothering with the pretense of sleep but not making his awareness known, either.

It's only when a set of fingers dances its way to one of his nipples, a soft but purposeful graze, that Hannibal grabs Will's hand and _squeezes_ , none too gently.

He feels Will huff in amusement behind him, an animal that still manages to be impudent despite being caught in the jaws of a predator.

"I'm sorry, was I bothering you?" he asks. His voice is quiet, but unclothed by the roughness of sleep. He's been at this for some time, then.

"You weren't," Hannibal assures him. He slackens his grip on Will's hand but doesn't let go, instead pulling his arm tighter around him and shifting further back into Will’s embrace. His scent and his warmth envelope him this way, soothe him even as he pretends to grumble.

“But, I should remind you that lesser men have met their end for lesser offenses.”

Another snicker from Will, the puff of air tickling the small hairs on the nape of Hannibal's neck. “Sorry. Didn’t know I’d be poking the bear.” Yes, he did. He removes his hand from Hannibal’s, splays it intently across his chest. “Does that mean you want me to stop?"

"That isn't what I said."

That's all the permission Will needs, really. He slides out from behind Hannibal, pulling the covers down as he goes to expose them both. His movements are almost _too_ springy, _too_ eager for the hour. And when Hannibal moves to lie on his back, he sees that he’s also already completely bare. Hannibal can only arch a brow at him. He's planning something, he’d be foolish not to see it. But Hannibal is content to let him amuse himself, for the time being at least.

Wills eyes are bright when he leans down, sucks a hot open-mouthed kiss into Hannibal's pectoral, just below the very spot he was earlier toying with. He continues on from there, leaving a trail of kisses down his sternum to the softness of of his stomach. Hannibal spears a hand through his sleep-mussed curls, casually possessive but still lazy with it. It spurs Will to meet his eyes as he teethes at his hipbone, fingers creeping under the waistband of his sleep pants. Their eyes remain locked as they work together to slip them off, freeing Hannibal’s morning hardness that’s taken a definite interest in the proceedings.

Despite his early enthusiasm Will apparently feels the sudden need to linger, mouthing at the crease where Hannibal’s thigh meets his hip and making his skin raw with the burn of his stubble. Hannibal relishes the pain, and any other day he'd allow Will to go at it until he was red and tender everywhere. But this isn't any other day.

"Will", he admonishes softly. He can feel Will's smile against his abused sin. But Will relents, and takes takes Hannibal in hand to press a kiss to the very tip of him. Hannibal has to prop himself up on his elbows, anxious for the sight of him.

Will is slow to start, at first, running his tongue indulgently up the length of his cock before finally, finally, taking him into the heat of his mouth. Hannibal sighs, and the sound is soft with relief. The fingers that still rest in Wills hair flex and spread, until Hannibal is cradling Will's skull more than anything. The better to feel himself moving in Will’s mouth, the better to cup his mind and marvel at the contents within.

Will sinks further down, lips stretched tight around him and forming a suction that makes Hannibal shudder. He eases up when the head of Hannibal’s cock kisses the flutter of his throat, though not for lack of expertise. Sometimes Will enjoys the struggle, the wet and messy feel of Hannibal plundering his mouth; the sight of Hannibal being completely overwhelmed above him. But other times it is just like this, slow and exploring and claiming, and Hannibal can't find within himself to complain. He has to fight to not let his eyes slip closed, consumed in the sensation that seems to warm him from the point of contact to the tips of his toes.

Which is precisely when Will lets the head of Hannibal’s cock slip from his mouth, and says: ”I have a proposition for you."

Hannibal blinks. Has to do it several times. ”It has to do with this, right now."

"Yes."

"I'm all ears, clearly.”

"I don't want you to touch me."

That has him for a moment, but he only allows a slight narrowing of his eyes to show it. He's long become used to Will ensuring that he _doesn't_ become used to him, and this can only be another venture in that never ending quest. It can backfire, on occasion, but at the worst it never fails to amuse at least one of them.

Will sees right through his silence, of course, and grins.

"I wanna ride you," he says, slinking back so he can rise to his knees, "slow, fast, however I feel like. And I don't want you to be allowed to touch me."

It sounds interesting enough. Hannibal is spiteful though, and he runs a hand down Will's chest just to prove how much.

"And what are you intending to achieve, with this exercise?"

He can roughly guess at the answer, but he always like hearing Will articulate it. Will seems to see through this as well, and shrugs.

"Testing your steel resolve. Or maybe I just plain old want to fuck with you." He snorts, and that Cheshire Cat grin of his grows. "I ride you until I come, and if you can get through it without touching me I'll get you off any way you want. No limits. And if you can't, you won't be coming for a week." He pauses. "By my hand or your own.”

It’s hardly the cruelest of punishments, and heaven only knows he and Will have doled out worse to each other in the bedroom alone. But that isn’t the _point_ , now is it? Will wants to string him along, demand that Hannibal jump for the simple reason that he wants to see how high he can go. And Hannibal is more than willing to take the leap, usually, but it’s rare that he does so quietly.

“If you’re looking to deprive us both, why not just bind my hands?” he asks, because he can.

"That’d just make it easier for you. Where would the fun be in that?” Will seems to have the response ready, prepared for Hannibal’s inevitable needling. And that thought just does something to him, the realization that this might just be more than a passing whimsy for Will.

"You really want this, don't you?"

"Inexplicably."

Who is Hannibal to deny him, then? Without another word, he lifts his arms, makes a great show of stretching them up and over him, before his hands find the slats of their headboard above him. His fingers curl loosely around the cool-to-the-touch wood. There to stay, until he is allowed otherwise.

Will’s smile challenges the very rising sun. He’s surging forward before Hannibal can do anything else, crowding around him and granting him a kiss that is lingering for all that it is chaste. He tastes of satisfaction and mint toothpaste and Hannibal.

“Something to tide you over,” he murmurs, all syrupy sweetness and care. Then he’s straight to business, swinging a leg over Hannibal’s hips and stroking him back to full hardness. The thought of reaching for their nightstand is dashed away from Hannibal’s mind when Will lifts up to tease at his hole, and the scent of lubricant Hannibal had caught when he first awoke makes sense. Will is wet and warm and messy between his legs, ready for Hannibal to slip inside so easily.

He’d prepared for this. Hannibal’s breath catches at the thought. 

Perhaps he'd snuck away to the bathroom to do it, so as not to wake Hannibal. Even better of an image: perhaps he'd done it right next to Hannibal as he slept, having to fight to not make a sound or shift too much on the sheets. Hannibal wants desperately to ask which one it was. But later, maybe. For now he’s too enthralled by the sight of Will sinking down onto him, his lips forming an endearing little purse that Hannibal wants to sink his teeth into.

A small gust of air gushes from them both when Will’s body meets Hannibal’s. Will takes a moment to shift and adjust, but it isn’t long until he begins to move in slow, greedy rocks. He is always hungry for this, whether they’re doing it this way or Hannibal is the one controlling how much he takes, and he tends to barrel past the warming up period in his impatience.

They’ve been in this exact position dozens of times before, but never like this. All those instances flash before Hannibal’s eyes, glimpses of Will tender and rough and domineering and subservient, but all glimpses of times where Hannibal was allowed to _touch him_. He feels the difference now almost immediately, like a thrumming heartbeat.

He can’t help but imagine the ways he’d feel him now, if allowed. He’d take hold of Will’s hips, first, gripping them tight to either guide or simply feel the bone and flexing muscle beneath his skin.

Hannibal almost goes to do just so, acting on pure reflex, and has to reaffirm his grip on the headboard with a damning creak. Will notices, of course, and smirks.

“Giving up so soon?” he teases.

He’s still moving, far too slowly for Hannibal’s liking. Rising up and leaving him bereft without that crushing heat, only to sink back down so gradually Hannibal isn’t sure which is a sweeter agony.

He has to sigh, or else say something Will will make him later regret. “How could I let us both down so quickly?” he asks.

Will shakes his head with an indulgent smile. _Not you, never_. He braces clenched hands on Hannibal’s stomach, uses the leverage to rise and fall a bit faster, only to return to his crawl of a pace a few moments later. He does this several times over, granting him relief and then making him pay for it sorely afterwards, seeming to tease himself just as much as Hannibal.

 _Slow, fast, however I feel like_ , he’d said. Will has no intention of making this painless for Hannibal, and if he happens to torture himself in the process, then so be it.

"No," he breathes after a moment. "Your only job now is to just take it."

If merely _taking it_ had been Hannibal’s only job, he doesn’t think Will would be holding it over him like this. He doesn’t think he would be already feeling mad with the need to flip them both over and bodily press Will into the mattress.

As it is, Will’s hands seem to be _everywhere_ , making up for what Hannibal himself cannot do. Squeezing his biceps, teasing over his neck, migrating down to his chest to tangle his fingers in the hair there. He imagines himself as a bare canvas, Will’s hands covering him and coloring him in with his attentive strokes. Streaks of crimson where there was once only alabaster. Every place he touches feels like he’s left something permanent behind when he moves on to the next one.

But Hannibal can grit his teeth through it, if that’s what Will wants to see him do. He can restlessly shift and not struggle, and become unsure just how much of it is for show. He can, he can.

“What would you do right now, if you could touch me?” Will chooses then to ask.

“ _Will_.” His voice is a dangerous growl.

Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, so innocent is Will’s expression. He rises impossibly slow, almost enough for Hannibal to slip free, his open hands skimming up his stomach as he does so. Like a contented, stretching cat.

“I’m just curious,” he says. “I know you’re imagining it, might as well share with the class.”

Hannibal huffs, his fingers beginning to slip with how damp his grip is becoming.

“I’ve already imagined holding onto your hips,” he begins. He has to clear his throat before continuing. “Feeling how the muscle shifts as you move. Or pushing you down faster, harder onto me just to throw you off.”

The description encourages Will, those aforementioned hips beginning to roll at a more uniform pace. He hums deep in his throat, but his lack of verbal response is telling enough: _more_.

Hannibal licks his lips. “I think I might travel to your nipples, next. I’d make stops, of course. I’d rake my nails across the tops of your thighs, caress your ribs, but that would be the ultimate destination.” His eyes rake over the area in question, shameless about it in the way he knows Will both loathes and loves.

Will feels the attention on him, and hesitates only a second for lifting a hand to tweak at one of the small pink buds harshly. His eyes have screwed themselves shut, his brows furrowing in tense concentration. He’s imagining Hannibal’s hands instead of his own, Hannibal dully realizes.

“They’re so sensitive, aren’t they, Will?” he murmurs, as if in agreement with Will’s small sound. “It only makes me wonder if anyone else has ever bothered to touch you there. I would take them between my fingers, tug and twist until you were squirming with it. Pull you in close so I could take one into my mouth.”

Will leans closer to him as if to allow him just that, has to catch himself at the last moment. Hannibal would revel with in this little lapse of control with pride if he didn’t want its result so badly. His hands _ache_ with their need to leave their faithful post, tightening even more with another groan of wood.

“I didn’t say you could stop,” Will chides, but his voice has lost some of it grandeur.

Hannibal has to retaliate. He pushes his feet into the bed to thrust just once into Will, _hard_. It shocks a near yelp from him, the false serenity leaving his expression in lieu of something angrier. Hungrier.

“Are you waiting for me to say that I’d touch your cock, next?” Hannibal asks, before he can react in any other way. “Or is that too much control allowed to me? Too much slack on my leash, when you so clearly crave a death grip on it?”

“No, I’d let you, I’d let you.” Will’s begun to rock faster to match the brief taste Hannibal gave him, his body unthinkingly searching for the treatment it craves. Hannibal’s goading has awoken something desperate in him. He’s still in control, yes, but gone is the patient restraint that he so proudly brandished before. He is out for blood now.

“Then yes, I would, if you’d let me. But only if you’d let me. Tell me Will, are you doing this to test my resolve, or did you merely want to see just how far your power over me stretches? How much I belong to you?”

Will laughs, his head tipping back in an arch that forces the tendons in his neck to stand out. “You already know the answer to that.”

Even now, like this, nothing can get past him. Even now, his mind is as incalescent as the body that encases it. Hannibal is so thrown by him that for a moment he can’t even conceive the notion reaching out to him, can only watch him writhe.

“In that case, if you’d allow me, I would touch you everywhere I could, in any way I could.” He has to pause, has to gather himself or else. “I would never stop if I could manage it.”

Will seems to give in to something, one hand leaving Hannibal’s chest to stroke himself roughly. He’s lost his rhythm almost entirely, bobbing on Hannibal’s cock in short, abortive jerks. Less concerned with putting on a show than with hitting that spot deep inside him. He must be close.

“Yes, that’s it, Will,” Hannibal murmurs. “Let me see.”

Will can’t _not_ be affected by being so gently coaxed into orgasm like that, and they both know it. Which is most likely why the next groan that escapes him is tinged with rebuke. His hips betray him though, juddering even faster as they’re emboldened by the encouragement.

“ _Stop_ _it_ ,” Will whines, in a tone that belies the command.

“But I want it,” Hannibal says. “I want to see you come undone, through your efforts alone. You worked so hard for it, haven’t you?” He meets Will’s eyes, makes sure their gaze is locked when he presses on. “My body is yours. _Use_ _it_.”

It’s like Will’s been punched in the stomach. A guttural sound escapes him, coming from somewhere deep and rarely tapped. His whole body seems to curl in with the impact of Hannibal’s words, his hips twitching once, twice more, and the dam breaks. He comes in long streaks that land on Hannibal’s stomach, his chest, tease at the bottom of his chin.

It takes a while for him to cease movement, his hips still slowly rocking as if by muscle memory. Or perhaps he’s simply trying to straddle that knife’s edge where pleasure bleeds into pain.

When he does stop, it is abrupt, his hands falling to the bed on either side of Hannibal as he slumps forward. His skin is flushed rosy and sheened with sweat. His mouth, the only part visible of his face, is bright red and agape as he pants for air. As Hannibal watches, the muscles in his toned thighs jump and flex, lamenting at the sudden end to their exertion.

Hannibal wouldn’t be surprised if he examined the slats of their headboard, later, and found ten perfect nail indents in the wood from where he’d been gripping them. He doesn’t think anyone would fault him for them, if they too held witness to the sight he’d had to restrain himself from touching.

“Satisfied?”

A breathless laugh wheezes it’s way from Will’s chest. His entire frame seems to deflate with it.

“Quite,” he says when he’s caught his breath.

“Then I hope you’ll forgive me for taking charge of the situation.”

Will only has a moment to process the declaration, eyes wide and oh so blue as he looks up through the hair obscuring them. Then Hannibal has him in his arms, flipping them both over in a flail of limbs. The movement dislodges him from Will’s body, but it’s only the work of the moment to grip himself, sink back into that inviting warmth once more. Will the has common decency to only look _somewhat_ chagrined once he’s caught his bearings.

“I think you’ll agree when I say this isn’t breaking your rule,” Hannibal explains. He doesn’t bother trying to sound apologetic, nor does he bother trying to hide his pleased smile.

Will can only look up at him, expression split between amused and resigned. “I’d count it as a technicality, but fine, g’head.”

Hannibal’s part of their bargain officially fulfilled, he has no qualms about gripping the backs of Will's thighs, shoving them back to his liking and beginning to thrust into his willing body again.And it’s like sinking back into a bath after having to step out, the chill of his skin instantly soothed by familiar heat. His arousal, so often stalled and started up again to Will’s liking this morning, returns tenfold. It spurs him on, makes him feel near crazed with it, until he’s pumping into Will at a harsh pace. His hold on Will’s legs tightens, moving to the backs of his knees for better leverage.

But all at once that's not enough, so greedy he is for the feel of Will's skin after even so short a time. Hannibal finds himself unable to stop his hands, running them along Will's legs, his chest, stroking up his arms to press his hands to the mattress. Will for his part seems just as unmoored as he feels, looking up at him like he’s something long lost even as he practically squirms with oversensitivity under Hannibal's rhythm. Not once does he ask him to stop.

It occurs to Hannibal, belatedly, that this exercise has been just as much a test of endurance for Will as it has been for him.

“C’mon, baby,” Will coos up at him. He’s always the most tender when he’s like this. Hannibal just barely fights a shiver, a half aborted sound escaping him. “I got to feel good, now it’s your turn. I want to see it, want you to fill me up.”

All at once, Hannibal is torn. Will’s words are egging him on, pushing him rapidly him to the brink, but he hasn’t had close to enough time to simply _touch_ him. His eyes roam over all that beloved flesh below him, overwhelmed with opportunities.

He wishes he had more hands to do his bidding, but he compromises; he comes with one hand gripping both of Will’s wrists together and the other pressing down on Will's throat.

He doesn’t _collapse_ onto Will once he’s wrung himself out, but it’s a close enough thing. He presses his face into the hollow of Will’s throat, breathing in lungfuls of his scent as if he’s been without it for years. Will is still panting like a racehorse beneath him, no doubt in need of more breathing room, but he only wraps his arms around Hannibal’s neck, reels him in tighter. Still dictating just how close Hannibal comes, even as he’s being crushed under his weight. He makes a soft shushing noise into his hair, and it takes Hannibal a moment to realize that he’s whimpering softly, somewhere in the back of his throat.

Hannibal refuses to allow himself any mortification at the weakness. He knows Will won’t begrudge him for it, either. So, they settle. They breathe as one being.

Eventually, Hannibal nudges his nose up against the hinge of Will’s jaw, a sort of bid for his attention.

“Did your experiment go the way you thought it would, then?”

He can feel Will considering above him. “I honestly didn’t know _what_ I was expecting, at first. I knew you'd find some way to play dirty. But I figured at some point that you’d succeed." He pauses, and then adds on, softly, "A part of me still hoped you wouldn't."

“In the interest of fairness, it’s one of the harder things that I’ve done. But I am sorry to disappoint. ”

Will shakes his head, runs a soothing hand through his hair, _all is forgiven_ , and then: ”You were supposed to tell me how you wanted to come. I would've done it."

Hannibal has to huff. ”I don't think I would have lasted long enough to even consider my options."

"Mm. Rain check it, I suppose.”

Yes, Hannibal most certainly will. He refrains from making any untoward comment about holding Will to it. He’s sure Will knows, either way.

Outside, the sky has brightened completely, the day going on with its beginnings heedless of how they’ve spent its early hours. Hannibal feels the small passage of time in the newfound soreness of his limbs, the mess drying between their bodies, but he also feels no pull to mark it in any other way. Will, though, will be even more tired from his exertions. Tired, and in need of nourishment soon, no doubt.

“Are you hungry?”

Will makes a noise in the affirmative.

Hannibal fancies himself with an image of going to the kitchen, leaving Will to rest in his languid bliss. Making him coffee and something light, but still filling, and bringing it all back up to him before he can even think to rouse properly. Running him a hot shower, once he’s sated and tired of lounging in the evidence of the morning, and ending up just joining him in it. He can imagine it all, and gladly.

“Perhaps if you’ll deign to let me move, I can get up and make us something,” he proposes.

But count on Will to trample his plans. He emits another sound, this one leaning towards petulance. His hands grow claws at Hannibal’s back, as if reaffirming their opposition to doing anything but staying where they are. He’s every bit the spoilt prince, demanding things from Hannibal and taking them for himself when he doesn’t get them quickly enough, or flat out turning them down when he doesn’t deem them worthy. Hannibal never wants to stop giving him everything he wants.

“In a minute,” he says.

That works as well, Hannibal supposes.

As if he could stop touching Will any time soon.


End file.
